


Good Morning Tucson

by realFactsNLogic (genericmainaccount)



Category: Election Year Knockout (Video Game)
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, Backstory, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Existentialism, Fake News - Freeform, Flashbacks, Gen, Headcanon, Nihilism, Politics, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genericmainaccount/pseuds/realFactsNLogic
Summary: News anchors can go postal too.Just ask Jack about what happened, four years ago.





	1. Conquest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I have three things to note:**  
>  **1)** I wrote this in light of the presidential elections in 2020.  
>  **2)** To get yourself into the mood, I recommend listening to “Good Morning Tucson” by Jonathan Coulton before reading.  
>  **3)** This story takes place 4 years BEFORE the events of _Election Year Knockout._ I threw in some headcanons here and there, as usual. Assume that boxing hasn’t been legalized (yet.)
> 
>  **OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER:** I do not own the song and lyrics of “Good Morning Tucson.” Jonathan Coulton does. I used his work as inspiration for this fic. I also do not own _Election Year Knockout or its characters,_ ExceptioNULL Games does. Feel free to support these people!

* * *

**_Still so dark_ ** _because it’s  
_ _Still so early and the  
_ _Chipper little girlie at the front desk doesn't mind at all_

 _These phony living rooms and  
_ _Fake plants are killing me  
_ _This bad coffee’s filling me with equal parts joy and rage_

 _Put my makeup on and crack in half  
_ _I choke back a laugh  
_ _Find the camera with the red light_

* * *

Another day, another dollar, another news report. 

Every unholy hour, Jack would arise. He would grope and grab around his room. Then, he would be met with a small, handheld screen. Two blurry options would appear: "Snooze" or "Dismiss.”

He couldn't remember which one he pressed. Probably the button with the rounded orange rectangle. Like Pop Rocks and soda, phone updates and his muscle memory did not mix.

Jack would then do the usual: douse himself in the intense stream of hot water, devour his breakfast, wash his face with cold water, floss every crevice between his teeth, right before he gets them brushed...and _end it all_ with a minty gargle and spit. 

Sometimes, he would forget to make himself coffee. Oh well, he'd have it at the studio instead. 

_Which studio,_ one may ask? The name of it escaped him, but it was the one that ran the _Good Morning Tucson_ segment. Once he buckled himself up, he smartly set his foot on the gas. 

Jack had already memorized the path to go to work. So much so, that upon entry, the woman at the desk stated, "You're early."

“Is that a bad thing?”

It's a rhetorical question, but the woman wasn't having his dry sarcasm. To his (un)surprise, she beamed, "Well, earlier than usual!"

He could only smile and nod as thanks, “I try my best. Wait, no. I _do_ my best. All for the network.”

Speaking of the network...would they ever fix the rooms? There's cracks here and there, faded paint jobs, and a broken air conditioner. Oh, and the plants. Of course they would come in plastic and felt. Nobody wanted to take care of them. Now, he would go on a rant, on how the plants are as fake as the people. 

In hindsight, he realized that he's no different, either. 

“Hey Janice, you know there’s any coffee yet?”

She smiled and nodded, "Yeah. The coffee machine's somewhere in the break room. I had some myself earlier."

One thing led to another, one answer led to a reply. When he was able to dismiss the conversation, he found himself in the break room. He was staring into the aperture, into the empty void of porcelain.

Jack then realized: _she never said the coffee would be of quality._ One poisonous sip and he had to dump it into the drain. He wanted so bad to dump the entire pitcher, too. 

That was when he remembered something, from the talk he had this morning with Janice: Earlier, he had said that he'll see her later in the day. When his shift was over.

_He never meant it as a promise._


	2. War

The job wasn't that bad, though. They got free donuts as well as bright-eyed, fresh-faced interns. Sometimes at the same time. And when that happened, the kids would eat all the donuts, leaving nothing behind. This time, though, there were no interns. Thank the Lord.

 _Jelly glazed._ That was his favourite donut, and still is. He liked how the glaze would sit on top of the surface. Inside of it, was the sticky red condiment. It would touch onto his tongue every time he took a bite. Everything about this donut, all felt like a controlled mess. Just like him. 

One time, he complained about the interns _‘stealing’_ the donuts. Sure, they were up for grabs. Couldn’t they just leave some for the _real_ workers here? Couldn’t they just leave it to and for _the professionals?_

When he did that complaint, he muttered ' _Millennials,_ ' as an afterthought.

Someone overheard, and was quick to go over to him. That was when he learned that most of the interns were in _Generation Z._ The earliest birth year for that generation was _1996,_ he was told. That shocked him, so much. 

It made him think something like this: Maybe he should stop reading those op-eds. They serve no other purpose than to have the Old rant about the Young. Who's idea was it, to use the younger generations—plural—as a _scapegoat_ for today’s problems? _“Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.”_ In this case, it manifested into playing a generational blame-game.

Topics like _these_ made his brain want to shut down, automatically. Nothing's been the same since the dawn of 2016. Everyone began to get more... _sentimental_ about their opinions, he's noticed. He couldn't help but wonder: was he _ever_ like that? Was he ever like _them?_

As time passed, Jack could no longer ignore such a phenomena. In reality, there’s no button that could 'block, ignore, and mute' these manners of speech.

Their ideologies would find other ways around, much to his dismay.


	3. Famine

You know they say: _"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."_

Jack had to learn how to adapt to this new life. He lived in an ever-changing climate, not only physical, but also _political._

He heard it all. He heard the several, diverse _screams_ filled with both hope and despair, hatred and love, red and blue, from the left and the right...

But to Jack, _it was all the same._

He could do nothing but report on these scandals, these triumphs, these victories, these what-nots. The network had prided itself on being neutral. No biases of any sort. _No bias,_ Jack wondered. _How could that be?_ Even _one_ change in vocab meant life or death for _Good Morning Tucson._ Especially for Jack. 

From what he had seen (and willingly narrated), both sides were out for blood. Both sides were in for a sense of belonging. Which was he to believe? 

Even his own silence on matters was suspicious enough. Jack did not want to pick sides, at all. Like Switzerland in World War Two, he would rather shoot _any_ plane that dared cross his territory. 

The press was always meant to be a neutral source of information. A credible source. But with the screeches of 'FAKE NEWS', Jack wondered: _was this going to be the new world of the press, and by extent, the news?_ If so, he did not want any part in it. 

He wanted to go back to a simpler time. A time where he would not be pressured to give his opinions; a time where he could speak without any judgement; a time where everyone got along despite their own differences.

Maybe Jack _did_ have _something_ to say. Even if it was _nothing._


	4. Death

The camera's _dead._ The prompter's _dead._ Everyone around him was _dead._

But he didn’t notice. He didn’t care, either. At least not anymore.

Everything was on fire, on that day. At least it felt like so at the time.

It felt like _Hell._ Maybe it _was_ Hell.

All he cared about, on that day, is getting through this segment. That’s all he was meant to do, right? Do _nothing_ but talk? About all the _chaos_ that's happening? After the bloodbath that was 2016, _nothing_ was safe. Not even his job at _Good Morning Tucson_ was safe from all the mess.

He remembered that November. As expected, the political spectrum bent into the political _horseshoe._ He remembered knowing that this was the _last_ time he’d ever work here. _Good Morning Tucson?_ More like _Good_ **_Riddance_ ** _Tucson._

He remembered collecting his calm gaze, into the camera lens, smiling politely as he said these _fatal_ yet _factual_ words:

**_"We're all going to die."_ **

There is no God. 

Only Jack. 

* * *

_Good Morning Tucson!  
__The lights come on, and so I smile wide and say:  
__Good Morning Tucson!  
__I throw to you, before_ **_I throw the rest away._ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, we can’t solve our problems by setting fire to our workplace. We’ll get through all of it in the end, regardless of who becomes president. And the cycle will repeat, four years later.
> 
> **Thank you for reading. Constructive criticism is greatly encouraged.**


End file.
